


summer lovin

by politicalmedievalistnerd



Series: Harry Potter Expanded Universe [31]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward First Times, Awkward Kissing, Awkward Sexual Situations, Aya Liu (OC), F/M, First Time, Harry Potter Next Generation, Mild Sexual Content, very minor casual sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 14:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmedievalistnerd/pseuds/politicalmedievalistnerd
Summary: james sirius potter makes a leap in the world of romance





	summer lovin

The Potter house is silent, save for the crackling fire. It’s a hot, dry summer, the type that blisters your skin if you go out for too long. Still, the fire burns, and sweat trickles down James’ neck, bursting from a small gland. His shirt is already off, pushed in a blue ball against the arm of the couch, and he rests his elbows on his knees, waiting. The clock strikes one. He twists his tongue within his mouth, still waiting. It feels fat and slimy. Does it feel that way to her?

 

Three past. The flames turn green, and in his excitement he jumps to his feet, making more noise than advisable. His girlfriend appears in the fireplace and steps out, dressed in a nightie to her mid-thigh decorated with a pattern of flowers he doesn’t recognise. But he’s fifteen, honestly, he doesn’t  _ care  _ all that much about stupid girly things his little sister would like. 

 

“Hi,” Aya says.

“Hi,” he says back. He runs his eyes over her pretty dark eyes and smile (is it as nervous as his?) and then the neckline of her nightie. She’s staring at something. His chest. Bare. Does she think he was -? “I got hot,” he says, stumbling over his words, and then he scratches the back of his neck. The movement reveals the cultivated patch of dark underarm hair that he’s quite proud of, which is twice the length of the fluff he grows on his upper lip.

“Yeah,” Aya says.

“Yeah,” he says back. Even the wooden floors feel hot and he wriggles his toes, tapping out a faint rhythm and shoving his hands in his pockets. She holds her hands by her stomach and seems to be mimicking some silly finger game Lily has showed him before. “Your parents don’t know?”

 

“Yeah,” Aya says. Her cheeks go red and he likes it. “I mean, yeah, they don’t know.”   
“Cool,” he says.    
“Where’s your bedroom?” He forgot that she hasn’t been to his house before. He looks at the staircase, and looks back at her.

“Um,” he says. “Upstairs. But Mum and Dad or Al will hear the creaks on the stairs.”

“Oh. You could have come to mine, my bedroom’s on the first floor.”   
“Sorry.”

“We have to be quick,” she continues, and tugs at her nightgown. He takes an eager step forward, his stomach infected with bats (he holds that butterflies are too girly). “I have to be home before the fire dies.”   
“We can just do it here,” James offers, and she looks at him. He wants to hold her close, be with her. “There’s the couch.” She wrinkles her nose and he longs to kiss it, to hold it between his fingers and tweak it. 

“Okay.” Aya stands up taller and he leans down, and feels her arms wrap around him. Their lips meet and he’s desperate, kissing as hard as he can, sometimes getting her cheek or nose instead, and he tastes his own drool on her lips and pushes his tongue against her teeth. Their noses press together and he hits her jaw with his chin. James pulls back.

“Sorry,” he says, and she pulls him closer. He can feel the sweat running down his sides, and he clutches her hair in one hand and it feels wet. James pushes his chest against hers and their tongues meet again, and it’s hard to avoid accidentally biting her lips. The corners of his mouth hurt from stretching and he breathes hard through his nose.

 

“Should we-?” he asks, pulling away, panting, uncertain. She nods, dark hair sticking to her face, and he sits on the couch. She sits next to him, and he waits for her to do something. She doesn’t do anything. He turns to her and puts his hands on her shoulders, moving in and pecking her lips, and fiddles with one of the straps.

“Here,” she says, and undoes it herself.

 

Later, they are sitting on the couch again, watching the fire begin to die. He smells bad and is covered in sweat, he can feel it sinking into his scalp. He probably needs water. She’s pulled her nightie back on, though it’s ruffled strangely and one strap keeps falling down. She looks like she is glowing, she’s so beautiful and he wants to say he loves her, ask her to marry him, suggest they floo somewhere strange in the middle of the night like the Leaky Cauldron and catch the Knight Bus to wherever they want. He wants to take her in his arms and sneak her up to his bedroom so they can hug. He wants to dance. He wants to tell her it’s better than winning a thousand Quidditch matches.

 

“Thanks, James,” she says, and stands up. “Um, it was nice.”   
“Yeah,” is all he responds with. “Thanks too.” He hopes his parents didn’t hear any of it.

“I’m gonna go.” Aya leans down and kisses his cheek, and turns and walks into the fire clutching a fistful of floo powder. She whispers her address and disappears. He puts his fingers to his cheek.

 

“Bye,” he whispers, and walks into the kitchen to quench his thirst.


End file.
